Wishful Thinking
by tiromu
Summary: In the shower, Desmond's imagination runs away with him. solo!Desmond, imagined ShaunxDes. Lemon with a pinch of angst. One-shot.


In the shower, Desmond allowed himself the time to daydream, to indulge in those ephemeral trains of thought that he refused himself during the day, with the hot water cascading down his back, spraying on the back of his head, matting the hair that kept getting longer as more time passed to his face, thick clouds of steam filling the small, fluorescent-lit bathroom. It was the only time he truly had to himself; when he was not in the Animus, the others took it in rotation to test his abilities in the warehouse, putting him through the paces by having him run obstacle courses or by sparring with them. He knew he was getting better when he nearly landed a blow on Shaun earlier in the day, though Rebecca and Lucy could both floor him within a few short minutes. The water soothed his sore muscles, relaxed him, and so he let his thoughts carry him away.

The heat of the shower was nearly suffocating, and it lulled him into a pleasant stupor, his head filled with hazy images of _Shaun_ in those rare moments when he smiled guilelessly, gesticulating as he explained the latest historical phenomenon he'd stumbled across to Desmond as though he perhaps considered them _equals_, and even moments when his insults were so clever Desmond couldn't make himself be offended, could only admire his quick wit and sharp tongue.

He imagined what it might be like if Shaun didn't hate him, if maybe he actually _liked_ Desmond, as much as Desmond liked _him_, and he imagined those smiles would come more frequently, would be warmer, broader, conveying fondness rather than the usual seething disdain Shaun seemed to reserve just for him.

He imagined sitting amicably with Shaun, discussing the finer points of what he saw through Ezio's eyes, and he could tell Shaun that Ezio was in love with Leonardo, thought he was brilliant and incredible, and let Shaun draw a parallel between them. Shaun would stare at him, he reasoned, and if he didn't hate him he would give him that treasured smile, lean over and _kiss_ him, and it spoke volumes for how lonely Desmond was that the thought of a simple kiss could send warmth separate from the shower south, could make him lick already-damp lips as he thought where _else_ that mouth could go.

They would be in the kitchen, or maybe on the couch, Desmond half-sitting up against the arm with Shaun sprawled out on top of him, hands tangled in each other's hair, clothes, as they pressed hungry, desperate lips together, Desmond allowing Shaun to take control when he would pull at his bottom lip with his teeth, the gasp it elicited prompting Shaun to take advantage of Desmond's open mouth, robbing Desmond of the ability to breathe, to think, to do anything but let that tongue explore him, moaning into it. Desmond imagined Shaun would then tug the zipper of Desmond's hoodie down, pressing damp kisses to his jaw line while Desmond panted, aching with want for _more_, and Shaun would snake his hands under his T-shirt, the chill of his fingers against the hard planes of muscle, over Desmond's warm, too-warm skin sending an involuntary shiver through his body.

Desmond leaned forward against the wall of the shower, head in the crook of his left elbow while his right hand slid down to his growing erection, fingers curling around it loosely, coaxing it into hardness, eyes closed as he pretended Shaun had pushed his shirts out of the way, had dragged his mouth down his neck, across his collarbones and down his chest, progress punctuated with hard bites and kisses, his hands traveling down to undo the fastenings of his jeans, teasing.

Desmond's grip tightened around himself, moving slowly up and down the shaft as he imagined the look in Shaun's eyes; a confident, self-satisfied smirk as he pushed Desmond's jeans down, out of the way, and pressed his palm to the hard member still covered by the thin fabric of his boxers, causing Desmond to groan and push up into Shaun's hand, encouraging him to _please_ keep going, but of course Shaun would continue to tease because he could never let Desmond have any control, his mouth leaving wet patches along the waistband, until Desmond bucked a little, impatiently. Shaun would sink his teeth into his hip in reprimand, but pull the waistband down to wrap his hand around the base of Desmond's cock and _squeeze_, forcing the air to stutter out of Desmond's lungs in relief and need.

He wouldn't give Desmond what he wanted, not right away, but would let his breath coast along the length of his prick, letting Desmond ache for contact, the feel of Shaun's lips around him, and would say something like _you want me so bad, don't you Desmond_ except snarkier, in a way that would make his cock twitch, pushing his hips up again into Shaun's hand, and Shaun would laugh at him without malice, and lower his mouth _god finally_ to the head of Desmond's length, tongue, _oh god_ his tongue swirling about the tip.

Desmond gasped a little, quickening the pace of his hand, squeezing his eyes shut against the building pleasure and pressure in his body. He imagined Shaun's head sinking around his cock, his lips tight around the shaft, the breath gusting out of his nose over his hand and into the curls at the base, hand gripping him firmly, tugging in time to the bobbing of his head. Desmond imagined his glasses would be knocked askew, steamed from his breath and the heat, but he would gaze up at Desmond anyway as he _sucked_, eyes dark and triumphant with lust and satisfaction at hearing Desmond moan _Shaun, oh god_ and that would be all the warning he got before Desmond shuddered and bucked and broke beneath him, into his mouth, Shaun grimacing but swallowing it—

Desmond had to bite down on the moan that threatened to escape him, fist gripping almost painfully as he jerked, breath gasping and stuttering as his orgasm coursed through him, carried by that image of _Shaun_ and his _mouth_ around him, and then the smirk he'd give Desmond after he wiped his lips, and then he'd kiss him, and there would be the taste of himself on Shaun's tongue, and he'd tell him it was _his turn_. . .

Water continued to pour down his back, steam continued to cloud the bathroom, and Desmond rested against the wall of the shower, catching his breath while the flood of pleasure slowly dissipated, fleeing entirely when the sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolted him out of his reverie. The bitter snap of Shaun's voice commanding Desmond to _hurry the fuck up_ spurred Desmond into action, reaching for the soap in order to comply with Shaun's wishes, to spare himself another malicious tongue-lashing when he left the safe confines of the shower. The loathing in Shaun's voice reminded him that what he'd imagined would never come to pass; Shaun would never give him those sly, tender smiles, would never look at him with eyes heavy with lust, would never whisper _words_ in his ears, would never grasp at him, needy, would never treat him as anything more than an annoyance that was occasionally tolerable. No, those fantasies would remain just that, only living in these few moments to himself at the end of the day.


End file.
